Chapter 22 #2
“Was sabotage responsible for Miss Crosson’s death?”
“Jackals,” Pancho growled. “We don’t even know what happened, and they’ve already ordered her tombstone.”
The other women crowded around Pancho, their backs turned to the reporters. She looked into their eyes and saw the one thing she most hated to see: doubt. They were seeking reassurance from her, and she owed it to each and every one of them.
“Are we going to continue?” Phoebe asked her. The others nodded as if that were the burning question in their minds as well.
For the first time during this entire race, Pancho genuinely wanted to say no. She wanted to stay right here until Marvel was found.
You’re not a quitter, a voice that was not hers whispered in her head. It was almost as if Marvel were standing behind her, speaking to her. I liked that best about you, Pancho.
Okay, that was strange. Clearly, she hadn’t gotten anywhere near enough sleep if she was hearing voices now. But wherever it came from, the voice was right.
Pancho said firmly, “Marvel sure wouldn’t want us to sit here and give those who dislike us fuel for their rants about how women don’t belong in the cockpit.”
“What do you think we should do then?” Amelia asked.
“We’re going to take off and continue the race, just like I’d tell Marvel to do if I was lost.”
The women traded looks with one another and nodded in agreement. The group broke apart and headed for the planes.
“The pilots are going to their planes!” a reporter yelled from behind Pancho. The press abandoned Joe Nikrent and Dr. Ayers and raced over toward the stage that had been erected beside a set of temporary bleachers.
The crowds here were as large as any they’d encountered so far but were well controlled.
Thank you, Agent Pullman, Pancho thought to herself.
The crowd seemed to sense how distracted and tense the pilots were with one of their own missing.
The fans kept a respectful distance and didn’t pester them, not even Amelia, for autographs and pictures.
Now that Pancho thought about it, the crowd was quite subdued as well.
“Leave your worries here on the ground, Pancho,” a male voice said behind her.
Agent Pullman stood at the foot of her ladder, waiting for Pancho to climb up to the cockpit. Today, he had on a set of white coveralls like the rest of the ground staff.
“Nice outfit. Are we making an aviation convert out of you?” she asked him in a weak attempt at humor. “Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me for flying lessons.”
“Not me,” he replied quickly.
“Seems like what you said back at Clover Field is more true than I want to admit,” she said soberly. “Men really will fight dirty to keep women from having what the men think is theirs. Darn it all. We just want to fly!”
“You want more than that,” Pullman disagreed. “If that was all you wanted, you’d be in California flying stunts for some movie right now. What you want is change. And I’m here to tell you, real change is always hard-won. Just as true for us men. This country is solid proof of that.”
Something moved through her, a ripple of determination that made her itch to get up that ladder as fast as she could. It was almost as if Marvel’s ghost were behind her, giving her a good pinch to get a move on. Don’t think like that! She’s fine. You’ll see her when you get to the next stop.
She climbed up the ladder, eager to fly on to Douglas, Arizona, in the southeast corner of the state, where news of Marvel being found alive would greet her. Pancho took Pullman’s advice and put everything else out of her mind, focusing only on her plane and flying.
The cool morning air was still and clear.
The women ahead of her took off without any hitches.
Concentrating fiercely, she rolled down the runway, climbed out, and flew her plane as hard and fast as it could go.
Today, there were plenty of landmarks to follow, and she had no trouble staying on track.
With the sun still low in the sky, the landscape below was all pink, peach, and soft yellow.
It was a perfect morning for flying, and she enjoyed it immensely.
Every time the thought that Marvel would’ve loved flying in these conditions crept into her head, she shut it down, telling herself ferociously that Marvel was going to get to fly in these conditions.
She would probably have to fly a day or two behind the rest of the girls, but she would finish the race.
The legendary visibility of the Phoenix area lived up to its reputation. Pancho spotted the railroad line running southeast out of town clearly from the air. The tallest mountains were easy landmarks to spot and find on her map: Mount Lemmon and Mount Fagan.
Every few minutes, she caught herself looking for a good landing spot in case she needed to set down in a hurry.
As a general practice, it wasn’t a bad idea, but she surely didn’t need to do it every five minutes.
Besides, as they left the mountains behind, this leg of the race took her over long stretches of nothing but flat, open spaces, perfect to land a plane on.
The sandstorm from Yuma was apparently headed across Arizona, and the planes had left Phoenix just ahead of it. She was glad to be racing away from it once more.
As great a danger as storms posed, she would still rather face one of them than have to deal with the sabotage of her plane.
Had someone tampered with Marvel’s plane?
Had she experienced some inexplicable mechanical failure that ultimately forced her to make an emergency landing?
The stakes in this derby were higher than Pancho’d ever imagined they could be.
Whoever was behind the sabotage was a blackhearted, truly evil bastard.
Pancho flew without incident over the Mule Mountains and on to Douglas’s huge airfield.
She made her timing pass and headed in for a landing in an all-fired hurry.
By the time she landed, she hoped news of Marvel calling in or being rescued would be waiting for her.
With that thought brightening her mood, she concentrated on making a picture-perfect landing and taxiing clear of the spacious landing strip.
Today, the planes were marshaled inside a hangar to park.
Her mouth was as dry as the desert she’d flown over as she parked her plane.
Boy Scouts and police were holding the crowd back at the hangar doors, leaving only airfield crew inside.
There wasn’t a smile in sight. Pancho’s entire body tensed.
She shut down her engine, going through the motions by rote.
A mechanic ran over to lean a ladder against the side of her plane, and she looked down, locking stares with him. His grief-stricken gaze slid away from hers, and he reached up to pull the hat off his head.
No.
Oh, no.